


Draco's Dragon

by Violets



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cute, Dragons, Family, Fluff, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, OC's - Freeform, OOC, OOC and don't care, Out of Character, Snapshots, it's super fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 15:47:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9664094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violets/pseuds/Violets
Summary: I saw a post on Facebook (that came from Tumblr, most likely?) about Dragons in onesies, and I've made it into a fluffy one shot. No sex of any kind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully, a picture will be attached. (I'm a bit of a technophobe)  
> There's been a post going around about Charlie taking baby dragons home to meet his mother, and I thought it'd make a cute, fluffy, family one shot. 
> 
> This hasn't been proofread. Feel free to politely inform me of errors, and I'll fix it when I have the time!

 

 

 

 

 

It’s Harry’s twentieth birthday party when Draco finally meets him. _Charlie_. Two years, _two years_ at the Weasley’s before the dragon tamer finally appears in the gnome-filled, overgrown, green, bright, cheerful garden.

 

-

 

Draco’s helping Mrs Weasley _–Molly,_ as she keeps telling him _–_ to set out an enormous picnic multi-coloured blanket when the woman jumps to her feet and squeals.

 

“Arthur? Arthur, come help Draco!”, she yells to her husband, who drops both the wireless and his spanner, and jogs over to them.

 

Arthur raises his eyebrows at Draco, who shrugs.

 

“You and Draco need to put all the cushions down, find some balloons, fetch the napkins-“

 

“And we need to get some soft toys out for the children,” Draco finished, smirking.

 

“Yes, exactly, dear. I’m going to go back to the kitchen, right now, hopefully I finish them in time!”

 

The two men glance at each other with equally blank expressions.

 

“Mol, what can you possibly have to do? There isn’t a spare _inch_ on that table!”

 

It’s true. Molly Weasley wouldn’t let anything go wrong for Harry’s special day. There are four treacle tarts in amongst the buffet. There’s a small table of purees for Victoire, Dominique, James and Rose. It has at least thirty pouches. (“ _We don’t know who else will be bringing their children, Draco. Help me with the mango.”)_

 

“Charlie’s going to be here soon, I know it! I need to make a cherry pie!”

 

Draco’s eyes stray to the pair of apple pies on the table. Apple, because Molly told him to choose the flavour. Ginny asked for the mint ice-cream, Hermione the sausage rolls, George the cheeses. The list went on.

 

“You’ve already made enough puddings, darling. Charlie will live.”

 

“I haven’t seen that boy in _years_. He’s finally coming home Arthur, and he’s **getting** a cherry pie.”

 

Arthur flinches. With a tired look at the straining table, he nods.

 

“Of course, dear.”

 

She is out of sight before he’s finished speaking.

 

“I didn’t know Charlie was coming.” Draco murmurs.

 

“Neither did I. But Molly said so, and by God, the woman’s never wrong.”

 

It must be maternal instinct, Draco supposes, as he looks across to where his own instinct-less mother is sat in the rocking chair under the apple tree. She’s cross-stitching a snitch on a cushion cover. It must be one of her good days; her hands are barely trembling and the picture itself is nearly finished. There’s a thin inked phrase at the bottom, lest she have a turn half-way through and forget her plans.

 

_I open at the close._

 

Harry is going to love it. Well, he would love it even if it said _Harry Potter_ on it. Or was drawn in muggle pens. But Draco knows that Harry will love it, because _he_ does.

 

Narcissa still remembers the final battle. Or at least a little after it. _She hasn’t got any worse_.  She remembers her childhood, her marriage, Draco’s birth, _Draco_ , but not when he lost his first tooth, or how he snuck home for a weekend in first year because his housemates scared him, or that Lucius died her hair brown and sent her to Cornwall for a month when his mark started to itch in Draco’s second year, and those horrific three years, the ones where Voldemort was present, they have escaped her entirely.

 

Arthur touches Draco’s arm lightly. He jumps and turns, feeling himself flush.

 

“Why don’t you get your mother a glass of iced tea? I’ll sort the napkins and the cushions, and George has already found the balloons. You can sort the toys in a minute.”

 

The man gives him a little push, so Draco moves to one of the pitchers of drink and pours a couple of glasses of tea. The glass jug waits until he returns it to the table before topping itself up.

 

He strolls across the garden, enjoying the tickle of the grass between his toes. Two years ago, he never would have thought of such a thing. Outside, without shoes?

 

These days he’ll even happily go to breakfast in pyjamas bottoms and a Weasley jumper, with his hair loose and wavy.

 

He sits with his mother for fifteen minutes before she looks up from her cross-stitch. It’s almost finished now. Draco can remember the days where she could do an entire picture cover in a day. He still _has_ one she did in a day. A cushion completely covered by mountains and the sea, with three beautiful dragons flying across it.

 

A snitch and a sentence, that’s still simple for her. On a good day.

 

“Draco, darling?”

 

“Yes, Mother?”, he asks, as if he’s just arrived. He pushes one cool glass towards her, and Narcissa smiles and takes it from him.

 

“Thank you, Dragon. It is rather hot today, don’t you think?”

 

“Very. That looks lovely.” He nods at the snitch.

 

She lights up. “Thank you, darling. You need to think about what you want, next. I need another project. I can’t sit and do nothing all day!”

 

She says this every other week. Thankfully, the family is large enough now that there is always something to do. Draco was very surprised when she took to sewing buttons on shirts and darning socks with Molly– the Narcissa of the past would never wear something enough _for_ it to need mending.

 

It makes him feel warm and cosy when she takes a jumper from him and returns it later with the loose yarn-end woven in.

 

“Maybe, maybe a new dragon?” His first cuddly toy, Oswald, got confiscated at the manor when the aurors came in. Apparently, it could have been harbouring a dangerous artefact in the stuffing.

 

Narcissa puts a hand over his and smiles. He thinks she understands, but –

 

“I’m so proud of you. Never too old for a cuddly toy! A friend, for Oswald! Shall I make another Welsh green, or do you want a different breed?”

 

Draco feels his stomach twist.

 

“Oswald got taken, Mother. By the aurors. But a new Oswald would be lovely. Oswald the second.”

 

Her brow furrows in confusion.

 

“I don’t remember.” She frowns, but the expression clears almost immediately. “It’s fine, my Dragon. I’ll make a new Oswald, and then it won’t matter.”

 

Her son smiles back at her, and she squeezes his hand before going back to her needle-work.

 

\--

  

An hour later, Mrs Weasley is proved right. Everyone is sat on their cushions, babies roaming freely in the centre of the blanket, Hermione, Ginny and Fleur in chairs with Draco’s mother, and a sudden ‘pop’ makes the blonde fall off of his purple cushion and onto the grass.

 

The being that has appeared is quite frankly astonishing.

 

The man is shorter than Bill, and Ron, and George, but still taller than Draco, and he’s all thick, corded muscle and tanned skin. His hair (the same as all the Weasleys) is sleek and bright and shiny, but it’s also long, and thick, and covering broad shoulders.

 

Draco swallows audibly. He’s never, _never_ felt such an instant attraction, not from this distance. (The only comparable time, he’d noticed a lovely man in Flourish and Blotts, but the butterflies hadn’t hit him until he was close enough to feel the _warmth_ of the man, to inhale a soft whiff of cinnamon and chocolate. He’d murdered every single butterfly the second Draco realised the man was, in fact, Remus Lupin.) 

 

Before he can think, there’s a chorus of “Charlie! You’re here? How have you been?”, and he’s gratefully for it, as it covers his stuttered ‘hello’.

 

The Weasley matriarch stomps over to her son, and stops a few feet away from him, right next to Draco.

 

**“Charlie Weasley, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?!”**

 

Charlie ignores her anger entirely, and waves with the hand that …isn’t holding a (very large) child’s car-seat? Draco’s heart sinks.

 

“Wotcher Mum! Brought the kids, hope that’s okay!”

 

Yup, utterly sunk. Until Draco notices, somehow, that everyone, Bill included, looks more than a little shocked.

 

“Kids? CHARLES WEASLEY, YOU’D BETTER EXPLAIN YOURSELF!”

 

Charlie doesn’t look bothered at all. He locks eyes with Draco, who blushes furiously, and _winks_. The man twists his wrist–which Draco notices is ring-free, though he supposes that doesn’t mean much, these days– and ––

 

“Those are _not_ ‘the kids’ Charlie, those are tiny dragons in _baby-grows_!!!!!” But, somehow, she seems less angry than she had twenty-seconds before.

 

Unlike everyone else.

 

Every parent in the garden grabs their children, as if the very _word_ dragon can threaten their infants.

 

Draco takes a step closer. There, in the centre of a pink blanket, are three little creatures, curled around and on top of each other, and they are definitely wearing _sleepsuits_. Well, two of them are. The Ukranian Ironbelly and the Norwegian Ridgeback. The third, a Welsh Green, is trapped in something that appears half baby-grow and half bag, and is decorated with _clouds_?

 

No-one moves. Not for a very long time. Until the littlest dragon sneezes. His whole head shakes, and snot comes out both nostrils with a light plume of smoke. Charlie picks up the dragon, grow-bag and all, and cuddles it close.

 

“Has anyone got a tissue? They’ve got the flu, poor babies. I couldn’t leave them on their own.”

 

Miraculously, Narcissa Malfoy moves from her chair and hands the dragon tamer an embroidered handkerchief.

 

She looks at the dragon, and a Draco, and smiles widely.

 

“Look, Draco! It’s Oswald!”

 

“Oswald?” Charlie raises a brow at the Malfoys.

 

“I had a knitted Welsh Green as a child.” He mutters.

 

“Oh. Well, this little boy is called Scorpius.” He kisses the top of the ‘baby’s’ head, and uses the handkerchief to wipe the snot away. The tiny dragon turns his head and tries to escape, but as soon as Charlie’s finished, he buries his head in his Daddy’s shoulder.

 

Molly Weasley never could resist a baby, or a sick person, or anyone vulnerable really, and her anger is already mostly gone, though she’s still frowning.

 

“Charlie, why do you have them? They should be at the sanctuary! With their parents! Where they belong!”

 

“But mum, these were rejected by their mothers. They have to stay in the nursery, or with a handler. I wasn’t going to leave them They’ve been living with me since birth, near enough!”

 

Now everyone’s deflated.

 

The Weasleys have never turned down a creature in need.

 

“Oh, poor things! What happened?”

 

Charlie shrugs. “The usual, Mum. Every dragon had a large clutch, this year. The smallest ones, well they’re the ones least likely to survive, so if I mother finds her energy and resources stretched, she’ll abandon the little ones.”

 

She sighs and steps up to look at the two in the blankets. “They are tiny little things. So sweet. But very, very small.”

 

Charlie nods. “They won’t grow without magic. The mother’s, usually. This lot will stay this size, unless they bond with a wizard. Even then, they won’t get any larger than a horse.”

 

“Oh. Are they safe to have near the babies, Charlie? Because I’m sorry, but we may have to put them in the living room–we can’t keep hold of all the kids for the whole afternoon.”

 

“Oh, but it’s fine to trap mine,” Draco hears him mutter.

 

“They’re perfectly safe, Mum. Well, Lizzie’s a bit nippy, but her balance is terrible. We’ll be able to grab her before she reaches one of the kids.” He gestured towards the Ridgeback, whose outfit looks an awful lot like a _tiger_? Draco shakes his head a little. “The other two don’t have any teeth yet. Quite unusual, but they like fruit and vegetables. They don’t need them as much. It’ll change soon, but for now they’re fine.”

 

This perks Molly right up.

 

“Oh, do you think they’ll like some purees? I’ve made a load for the babies? Mango? Banana? I have a chicken casserole one–Fleur introduced me to a blender.”

 

Charlie smiles so broadly, his entire face lights up, and it takes Draco a moment to remember how to breathe.

 

“A couple of each would be fantastic, Mum! I don’t know which they’ll like, but they stopped getting milk and shredded leaves last week.”

 

He pats Scorpius on the head, and Draco swears that the dragon purrs.

 

“Can I hold one?” George calls out, and Charlie turns his smile onto his little brother.

 

“Sure, just come and sit with them for a while first. They need to get used to your scent before you touch them. In fact…”

 

His gaze lands on Draco, considering.

 

Molly returns with her arms full of pouches –when did she move?-  and three tiny little dragons start squawking.

 

It’s not as piercing as Draco imagined it to be. It’s high, but it’s also quite weak. Moaning, rather than shouting.

 

“Okay, okay. Babies. Chill.” Charlie chuckles, until the ironbelly manages to fall out of the blankets. Then he pauses to scoop up the little creature, and checks his head for bruises.

 

He’s the biggest of Charlie’s babies, about the same size as Victoire, who’s nearly two. It’s freaking adorable that the large man cares so much, but it’s a _dragon_. Surely a bump means nothing to a _dragon?_

 

“We’ve got to be careful with Sirius. His mother literally threw him from the nest. He’s still a little tender.” Charlie rubs his cheek along his spiky scales, soothing little Sirius. All three dragons are still making little hungry noises, and they’re turning more to begging. Charlie looks at his full hands, then at his family, and sighs.

 

“Mum, sit down, please.” Molly kneels down, careful to keep her dress folded over her knees.

 

“Alright.”

 

“Would you like to feed Lizzie?”

 

Molly looks shocked, but she quickly nods. This is Charlie’s _baby_ , after all.

 

It turns out that feeding a dragon is no different to feeding a newly-weaned baby. As soon as Molly scoops up the creature, she starts squawking for the food. And as soon as a pouch is near her snout, she shrieks that it’s not reaching her fast enough.

 

And as soon as she’s handed a carrot puree, she squirms and growls until she gets another banana one.

 

As soon as one baby’s being fed, the other two start whining that it’s unfair. Charlie cuddles them both for as long as possible, hoping to settle them a little before opening the pouches, but it’s a lost cause. It always is. A baby dragon is not a patient creature.

 

“Draco? You’ve been stood here the whole time. You should be alright to hold Scorpius, if you could?”

 

Draco gasps.

 

He’s wanted to touch a dragon since he was three years old. Of course, that urge vanished for a while when the triwizard tournament hit Hogwarts, but it’s come back strong since.

 

“Would you like me to feed him?” He tries to make it sound like he doesn’t care much either way, and apparently he succeeds, because Charlie frowns at him.

 

“Only if you want to. He can wait till Lizzie’s done, otherwise. I couldn’t bottle-feed more than two at a time, so they’re used to it.”

 

“I do.” He smiles at the larger man, a little uncertain, but he gets a broad grin back.

 

“Okay then,” he hands Draco the tiny Welsh Green. Draco struggles for a moment, until the redhead positions his arm so his hand rests on the dragon’s belly, his back to Draco’s front.

 

Charlie’s hands are warm and dry, and Draco feels himself blush as they touch his own.

 

 “A dragon for dragon,” Charlie says with a wink.

 

Draco, impossibly, gets redder.

“Welsh Green’s are carnivores, aren’t they? Should I give him a chicken one?” Draco vaguely wonders about the diets of the other dragons, but he’s _sure_ that Welsh Greens eat animals.

 

“Primarily. They eat greens for ruffage, though, because a lot of Green’s live on rabbits and similar.” Charlie cocks his head to one side, considering. “He still likes grass. _Loves_ grass. Maybe feed him a couple of handfuls before trying a pouch. Mum, d’you have any salad leaves or spinach kicking about?”

 

As Molly explains the ‘spinach smoothies’ (Fleur insists they are a necessity for pregnant women, so the fridge is full of them, to Molly’s distaste), Draco pulls up some grass with his free hand, and offers it to Scorpius.

 

Palm flat, like feeding a horse, because _how_ exactly does one feed a dragon? Molly hadn’t even had to think about it, Draco notices. Maternal instincts take care of everything.

 

Draco watches the little green dragon bury his snout in the grass, and laughs as his tickles his palm with his tongue. Scorp mashes his grass around his mouth for a while before swallowing.

 

“Hi, Scorpius,” he murmurs quietly. “I’m Draco. I’ve always wanted a dragon, y’know. Just like you. You’re really cute. Not like those brutes Potter consorts with.”

 

He barely notices when Charlie sits down beside him; Scorpius absorbs every last drop of his attention.

 

“I have a pouch for when he’s done with that handful.”

 

Draco nods absently. When his hand is empty, he finally looks up at Charlie, who is sat cross-legged with Sirius in his lap. This baby is holding his pouch steady with all four of his feet. Occasionally he gives a little splutter, and Charlie removes the food for a moment.

 

“Easy, mate. _Slowly_. No-one’s gonna steal it.”

 

“Pouch?” Draco asks quietly.

 

Charlie gives Sirius’ back to him, and reaches for another.

 

“Scorp still has a little trouble swallowing sometimes. Make sure he’s sat up, and his head’s tilted back a bit. Dragons are a _tad_ different from human babies, but as long as his head’s back, he should be fine.”

 

Draco’s never fed a baby. He holds the children sometimes, when there’s no-one else to do it, but that’s it.

 

He lifts the end of the pouch (snipped off, by Charlie, who knows his tiniest baby won’t care at all for the squeezy spout that was previously in the middle) to Scorp’s mouth, and the little dragon quickly makes snuffling noises as he tries to swallow the food as quickly as possible.

 

“Easy. Don’t let him take too much at once–he’ll get wind.” Charlie puts an arm around Draco to support his elbow, changing the angle.”

 

Scorpius settles down and starts eating normally.

 

Draco sits there, feeding a _baby_ , with _Charlie Weasley_ holding him.

 

When Scorpius is finished, he regains energy very quickly, quite unlike the food coma that babies are prone to following a meal. He scampers all over Draco, using his little claws to hook into the blonde’s shirt. Quite impressive, using only his front legs. He sits on his shoulder and licks his face.

 

He buries his head under the man’s arm when George comes to ask if he can hold him.

 

_That’d be a no._

 

He eventually lies on Draco’s legs to take a nap. The tiny creature yawns and purrs, and tries to get Draco’s shirt over his body.

 

It won’t stretch, so Draco grabs a blanket out of the car-seat and drapes it over his charge. Sirius, also preparing for his nap, grabs a corner between his gums and tugs it towards himself.

 

Scorpius looks at Draco and wails.

 

“Hey. It’s okay,” he murmurs in what he hopes is a soothing manner.

 

Charlie chuckles. “Hey, boys. That’s enough. You can share.” He slides across the grass until his leg is pressed against Draco’s, and moves the blankets to cover them both.

 

Draco’s blush, which had faded completely, flares up with urgency. Charlie looks at him quizzicall.

 

“Are you okay, Dragon?”

 

“Yes, perfectly fine, thank you.” He winces as his voice cracks.

 

“Ah.” The older man smirks, and suddenly the tiny dragon is the only thing keeping Draco from running. He manages to stay still, and even calms a little, until the redhead decides he’s too hot.

 

He pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and Draco is hit with the scent of sweat, and man, and…

 

 _Yum_.

 

This particular Weasley had a very defined, very tanned chest, covered in… tattoos.

 

Draco stares. He can’t help himself. Even a snoring baby _dragon_ can’t make him look away.

 

There are swirls, and flowers, and dragons, and a unicorn, and thestrals, in one large open scene.  

 

It’s beautiful.

 

“See something you like?” Charlie’s deep voice disrupts his thoughts. He’d really just been admiring the artwork, genuinely, but as soon as Charlie says it, Draco’s mouth falls open and he turns red, yet again.

 

This time, Charlie doesn’t ignore it. The older man reaches up and brushes his thumb over the blonde’s cheek.

 

“You blush so easily, you know.”

 

“Not usually,” Draco murmurs back.

 

“Really? Is it me, then?”

 

“I-oh-um, you see–“

 

Draco doesn’t need to explain. Charlie dips his head and presses his lips to Draco’s. The kiss is warm and chaste, just a careful, slow brush of the lips.

 

It’s a hundred times better than any other kiss Draco’s ever had. It’s perfect. It’s nothing _but_ a kiss. In the sunshine. On a perfect day. Between him and a nice, kind, strong man, surrounded by family, who have faded into the background.

 

Draco doesn’t know if any of them saw, and he doesn’t care. He’s with people he likes, and his mother’s having a good day, and there are _dragons_ , and a _good_ man has kissed him. Draco’s never felt happier.  

 

 

 


End file.
